


Your Eyes Look Like Coming Home

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime Scenes, Eating Disorders, Flirting, M/M, Mycroft's Ring, greg and mycroft are both dorks, sherlock gives lestrade the shovel talk, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9452351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Just because everything changes doesn't mean some things don't stay the same.Or; Greg goes back to work, and he and Mycroft clear a few things up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Everything Has Changed by Taylor Swift.  
> Mark Gatiss has said Mycroft's ring isn't a wedding ring, but that he feels there's a story there. Naturally, I had to write it. Also, Mycroft is the red gay and Greg is the blue gay (mainly because they look really good in their respective colors).  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any problems.

It was really easy to get used to the sound of sirens. Working for Scotland Yard had made Greg all but immune to them, so it was easy not to notice the noise as anything more than a bit of an inconvenience to talk over as he stepped out of the police car. Inside the flat to his right would be the victims of a believed murder-suicide, according to the preliminary report. Around him, people were scurrying about, taping off the area, driving back curious passersby, and preparing to go in and examine the scene. Greg paused in the doorway, thinking to himself how odd it was that life could fall back into the usual routine just days after a horrible event, before he was jostled by one of Anderson’s team and snapped back into focus.

The scene was superficially basic: a woman, dead of a gunshot wound, sprawled across the floor in a pool of her own blood, and a man, draped over a chair, gun hanging loose in his limp hand, his brains splattered against the siting room wall. It was nothing Greg hadn’t seen before. The writing, too, was something he was familiar with, but that was more unusual.

The words “I’m sorry” were painted red on the mirror over the mantelpiece.

“It’s her blood,” Anderson confirmed, gesturing to the dead woman.

“Just like the last one,” Greg said. “Second murder-suicide case in less than two weeks, same message in blood.”

“Maybe he saw the news footage,” Anderson suggested.

“No, we didn’t release details about the message to the press,” Greg answered. “There’s something more going on here.” He fumbled for his phone, and Anderson caught his hand.

“You’re not really going to call him now, are you?” he asked, incredulous. “We can handle this. There’s no need to bring him in.”

Greg hesitated, and then put the phone back in his pocket. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Two days later, there was another report. Anderson didn’t stop Greg from taking the police car to 221B Baker Street.

It was still a mess, but renovations were well underway, and by the end of the week the flat would probably be more or less back to normal. Mrs. Hudson let Greg in, “he’s upstairs, but this might not be the best time.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Greg dismissed her, ascending the stairs two at a time. It was only when he reached the landing that he heard music playing. It was Sherlock’s violin, soft and elegant as opposed to the screeches Greg had walked in on many times when the consulting detective was frustrated or bored. He knocked on the doorframe before stepping into the room.

Sherlock was on his knees in the center of the room, which looked much more barren than Greg was used to seeing it, and he didn’t look up until he finished his piece. Rosie Watson, lying in a baby rocker in front of Sherlock, squealed and clapped her hands together in glee. “She’s the most appreciative audience I’ve ever had,” Sherlock said conversationally, getting to his feet and setting the instrument to the side. He finally looked up at Greg, “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a case for you,” Greg answered. “Third set of murder-suicides we’ve found in two weeks. All heterosexual couples, all with the same note written on a mirror using the woman’s blood. I’m on my way to the third crime scene. Can you come?”

Sherlock glanced down at Rosie and bit his lip. He looked torn. “John won’t be back for at least ten minutes,” he said, “and I can’t very well bring her to a crime scene.”

“Right.” Greg looked at Rosie. She was busy batting at the mobile hanging above her, no longer paying attention to Sherlock. “You could come by Scotland Yard later, I suppose. Pick up the case details then?”

“One moment,” Sherlock took out his phone and sent a text. He must have gotten a reply, because he scooped Rosie out of her rocker and said, “I have to leave now, but Mrs. Hudson will watch you until your dad gets back. Understand?”

Rosie responded by cooing and attempting to grab at Sherlock’s curls. “Good girl,” he beamed at her. Then he turned to Greg and said, “I’ll meet you there.”

“See you there,” Greg didn’t wait for Sherlock, he took off for the scene. Minutes later, Sherlock caught up to him, climbing out of the back of a taxi. It took Greg a second to remember that John wouldn’t be following. He’d gotten too used to seeing the doctor trailing after Sherlock.

“Alright, show it to me,” Sherlock commanded, and Greg led him into the crime scene.

“It’s almost like old times, innit?” Greg commented, watching Sherlock poke around.

“Old times?”

“Just you, me, and a dead body while my team stands outside saying rude things about you.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Sherlock muttered distractedly. “Any connections between the victims?”

Ten minutes later, Sherlock had a murderer for Scotland Yard to track down. As he and Greg strode back out onto the street, he commented, “I would have thought you could handle something so basic without my help by now.”

“Yeah, well, not everyone can be a genius,” Greg responded. “At least you’ll be home for dinner.”

Sherlock paused, and Greg looked at him. It took Sherlock a few seconds of clearly working himself up to it to ask, “How’s Mycroft?”

Greg shrugged, “I haven’t seen him since I spent the night, and that was…four days ago.”

“You’ve been talking to him, though. You call him every day.”

It would have been pointless to ask how Sherlock knew that. “Yeah, I have,” Greg said. “Between me and Anthea, we’re keeping pretty good tabs on him.”

“I thought I told you to look after him.” The words came out a bit harsh, but Greg could see the concern in Sherlock’s eyes.

Greg sighed. “It’s not that I haven’t wanted to. Work just got really busy, so I haven’t been able to do more than call him to check in.” He hesitated, “I’m stopping by tonight. You want me to pass on a message?”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “No, I don’t think Mycroft wants to talk to me right now.”

“You’d be surprised.”

The look Sherlock gave Greg was a bit skeptical. “Well. If nothing else, I know he’s in good hands.” Sherlock looked away, a frown crossing his face. He looked back at Greg. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to threaten you?” he asked. “Siblings are supposed to do that, right? I’m supposed to tell you that if you hurt Mycroft, I’ll kill you, or something like that.”

Greg laughed. He actually doubled over laughing, drawing strange looks from the other officers and a mixture of annoyance and humor from Sherlock. “Sorry,” he said, catching his breath. “Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting that from you.”

“I don’t actually think you’ll hurt Mycroft,” Sherlock was completely serious, which helped Greg to stop laughing.

“You know we’re not technically a couple, right?” Greg asked.

Sherlock’s brow creased in confusion. “You do like him, don’t you?”

“You make it sound like we’re kids.”

“ _Don’t you?_ ”

“Of course I like him,” Greg sighed. “I just…I don’t know where I stand with him.”

“You should probably figure that out then, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock turned away from him and started to stride away before he paused and looked back. “You’re a good man, Lestrade. I think he needs one of those right now.” And with that, Sherlock Holmes disappeared into a cab.

***

The house was mostly dark when Greg pulled up. Night was just beginning to fall, casting a warm blue glow for a backdrop. Greg almost felt like he should have brought flowers instead of a plastic bag of takeaway. He rang the doorbell, trying to keep from bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited, and jumped slightly when the door was pulled open.

“Good evening, Gregory,” Mycroft smiled.

“Hey, Mycroft,” Greg grinned. He held up the bag, “You up for dinner?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, but he did let Greg into the house. “You know,” he threw over his shoulder as Greg followed him into the kitchen, “you didn’t have to ring the doorbell. You could have just come in.”

“I wasn’t sure how welcome I was.” Greg set the bag down on the counter and rummaged through the cabinets for plates.

“You’re always welcome here,” Mycroft said softly.

Greg turned to look at him mid-motion, setting the plates down gently and smiling slightly. “Yeah?” he asked.

Mycroft looked away. He flushed. “Don’t make me say it again. I do hate to repeat myself.”

Greg laughed and returned to his task. “Sorry I couldn’t come by,” he said. “Work, you know.”

“I know.”

“I’ll admit, I did have to guess a bit here,” Greg gestured to the plates, now with food on them. “You typically do the ordering. Hope I got it right.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, a motion Greg was quickly learning to recognize. “Have you eaten today?” he asked, trying to come across as stern but not harsh. He was pretty sure he just sounded worried.

“Just tea this morning,” Mycroft admitted.

“Then you’re eating dinner,” Greg said firmly. He softened, “It’s one meal, Mycroft, okay? Can you at least try, please? For me?”

Mycroft took the plate Greg offered him and nodded slowly, although he looked a bit queasy. He led Greg into the dining room, which had a grand, wooden table long enough to seat a dozen people, and an actual fireplace opposite a picture window overlooking the grounds.

“Cozy,” Greg joked when Mycroft sat down next to the head of the table. Greg sat across from him.

Mycroft chuckled, “I suppose it is a bit dramatic. It wasn’t always just me living here.”

Greg’s eyes flickered to the ring on Mycroft’s right hand. He’d wondered about it for a long time, and even asked Sherlock once, although all he’d received was a scoff at the implication that Mycroft was married. Mycroft noticed him looking and flexed his hand, the gold ring shining in the light. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “It’s not a wedding ring.” He sat back in his chair, watching Greg’s face carefully, “No, I just meant that this is a family house, and we used to be a family, once upon a time. Happier days, and all that.”

“Right,” Greg nodded. Then, “Sorry, if it’s not a wedding ring, why do you wear it?”

Mycroft laughed, and Greg was sorely tempted to kiss the grin on his face. “It’s a bit silly, actually,” he admitted, smiling down at his lap.

“Silly’s good,” Greg said. “God knows we have enough serious stuff to talk about.”

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed. He chuckled again. “I started wearing it not long after I got into politics. I’d only been working a few years but I was already, by all accounts, an invaluable asset.”

“I believe it,” Greg grinned.

“I had a secretary,” Mycroft continued, “who, I believe, was rather infatuated with me, or at least with the power I wielded. She...attempted to seduce me. Poor girl, hadn’t a clue that I was gay. Not that I advertised it, mind you. I was still new to the political sphere, and it wasn’t exactly a safe space to be out.”

Greg nodded, “I’ve been there. Policemen and politicians. Probably two of the worst positions to be in if you’re not strictly heterosexual.” He blushed, “Sorry, I keep interrupting you.”

“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft smiled warmly. “As I was saying, she thought to use her feminine wiles to seduce me, which put me in a rather unpleasant situation. I panicked and told her I was married. Fortunately, she was more scrupulous than many of the people I’ve worked with, so she didn’t suggest an affair. She was, however, confused as to why I didn’t wear a ring. At the time, I just said that my wife wasn’t big on marriage traditions, and she seemed to accept it. But, a few years later, another employee of mine made similar advances, so I decided I needed more tangible discouragement. I started wearing the ring to work, and since I never knew exactly when I would be called in, it eventually became a habit to wear it all the time.”

“So let me get this straight,” Greg clarified. “You wear a ring so your minions don’t flirt with you?”

“I told you it was silly.”

Greg laughed, and Mycroft joined in. “Christ,” Greg said, wiping his eyes. “That’s…hah, that’s brilliant.”

“It doesn’t always work,” Mycroft admitted. “Lady Smallwood, I believe you know who she is? She gave me her number not long ago. Asked me out for drinks.”

“Maybe she just wanted to go out as friends,” Greg suggested.

“No,” Mycroft shook his head. “I thought maybe, at first, but there really is no other explanation for the looks she was giving me.”

Greg shook his head, still chuckling. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said, “disappointing women for even longer than Sherlock.”

“A few men too,” Mycroft confessed.

Greg felt his smile fade, and he swallowed hard. He set his silverware down, and Mycroft frowned at him, catching the motion. “I actually wanted to ask you about that,” Greg said slowly.

Mycroft’s frown deepened, “You wanted to ask me about the men I’ve turned down?”

“I wanted to ask you about us,” Greg clarified.

“What about us?”

“Is there an us?”

Mycroft tilted his head, leaning back and examining Greg, who had a feeling like he was being x-rayed. “I thought it was clear where we stood with each other.”

“I thought so too,” Greg said, “but then I realized that we never actually said…well, anything.”

“You spent the night at my house,” Mycroft said, still frowning. “We talk to each other every day. You’re continually giving me kisses and hugs and watching out for my wellbeing. Now, maybe, on their own, those could be interpreted as friendship, but the combination seemed to indicate something more…” He paused, and then leaned across the table and took Greg’s hand. Greg let him. “I’m sorry if I did not make it apparent enough before. As I said, I struggle to convey emotions properly. But I never want you to have any doubt in your mind that I care for you deeply, Gregory. I want to have a relationship with you. That is, if that’s what you want.”

“Of course that’s what I want,” Greg breathed. “I just don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Mycroft released his hand. “Take advantage of me? How would you be taking advantage of me?”

“You’re not exactly in a solid emotional place,” Greg pointed out. “You could just be reaching out to the nearest person.”

Mycroft bit his lip, looking sheepish, “While I admit that I’m not the most mentally sound right now, I’m far from ‘just reaching out to the nearest person,’ Gregory. You told me that you had been attracted to me for quite a while. Well, I must confess I felt similarly. However, you were married and I couldn’t fathom you having even the slightest interest in me.” He hesitated, “As awful as everything that has happened has been, finding out that you wanted me has been a silver lining.”

Greg grinned at him shyly, “So, just to make sure we’re clear: we’re boyfriends.”

“You make it sound so juvenile.”

“Partners, then,” Greg responded. “Or whatever you want to call it. At any rate, a couple.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, “we’re a couple.” He flushed, “And for the record, I don’t actually mind the term ‘boyfriends.’”

“Good.” Greg knew his smile probably made him look like an idiot, but he couldn’t help himself. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to tell anyone, what with your work and all.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft said. “By now, many of my colleagues are aware of my sexuality, and those who aren’t can’t touch me. Anyone who might have a problem with it knows well enough to keep it to themselves. Assuming you are amenable to it, I would like very much to tell people about us.”

“I’m definitely with you there,” Greg said. “I don’t exactly advertise the fact that I’m bi, but I’d have plenty of support from my team if anyone had a problem with it.”

Between speaking, Greg had managed to finish off most of his plate. Considering he’d barely had time for lunch, he had been starving by the time he sat down. Mycroft had made much less headway; his plate was hardly half-gone. Greg watched him in silence for a few minutes, relieved that Mycroft was actually eating, even if it was just the one meal and very, very slowly. Finally, he said, “I know you’re probably going to say no, but I think you should talk to someone.”

“I’m talking to you right now,” Mycroft said, avoiding his eyes.

“You know what I mean,” Greg said. “You should see about getting a proper therapist.”

“Did Anthea put you up to this?”

“No, but she agrees with me.” Greg reached out and took Mycroft’s hand again. “We’re both going to be here for you, and I suspect Sherlock would be too, if you could both get your heads out of your arses, but you’ve got a lot of problems, Mycroft, and we can only really help with the symptoms. If you want to get better, to _really_ get better, then you need to see someone about it.”

Mycroft remained silent, picking at his food rather than eating it now. When he raised his head to peek at Greg, the inspector gave him a pointed look, and Mycroft looked away again. “I’ll think about it,” he eventually replied. He withdrew his hand from Greg’s and pushed his plate away, “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Five more bites.”

“What?” Mycroft looked incredulous. “I’m not a child.”

“No, you’re not,” Greg agreed, “but I’m your boyfriend and I’m worried about you and I’m willing to negotiate. Five more bites, Mycroft. Please?”

“Fine.” With more bitterness than Greg thought it possible to convey with cutlery, Mycroft did as he was asked. When he finished, he asked blandly, “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Greg returned the tone. He stood and picked up the plates. “I’ll clear this away. Do you want to watch a movie, or just go to bed?”

“You have work tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to keep you up too late.”

“Bed, then,” Greg said. He hesitated. “Do you, um, do you want me to stay?”

“If possible.” Mycroft’s expression was somewhere between legitimately shy and coy. “Although you needn’t stay in the guest room. I’m sure you’ll find my bed quite comfortable.”

Greg laughed. “Are you seducing me, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft’s sly grin was all the answer he needed. “Is it working, Detective Inspector?”

“Go on, then,” Greg nodded towards the stairs. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

When Greg got upstairs and managed to find Mycroft’s bedroom, the man was already dressed for bed. His pajamas were the same style as the ones Greg had worn on his last visit (the same pair that he noticed were sitting on top of the dresser, presumably waiting for him), but they were a deep burgundy. When Greg swiped the blue ones, he said, “I should probably bring some of my stuff over if we’re going to make a habit of this.”

“Don’t bother,” Mycroft was sitting in bed, watching him. “You look very good in my clothes. Particularly that color.”

“I still should keep some clothes here. Anthea can’t always be fetching me stuff from my flat,” Greg unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it to the floor. Mycroft raised one eyebrow, and Greg rolled his eyes, “Don’t act like I’m offending your delicate sensibilities. You can always look away.”

Mycroft did just that, blushing and clearing his throat, “Maybe I’m just appalled that you’d leave your shirt to get wrinkled on my floor.”

Greg finished changing, picked up his shirt and folded it and the rest of his clothes, and set them on the dresser. Then he slipped into bed next to Mycroft. “Better?” he asked.

Mycroft turned to look at him again, their faces suddenly inches apart. “Much,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on Greg’s lips.

Greg took the cue and leaned in, kissing him softly. Mycroft melted like putty, but when he moved to deepen the kiss, Greg pulled away. Mycroft looked a touch confused, but Greg just murmured, “Not tonight, okay?”

“Is this about not taking advantage of me, Gregory?” Mycroft asked. His tone was playful, but Greg could hear relief under it.

“Well, there’s that,” he returned with a smile. “And the fact that I’m knackered.”

Mycroft turned out the light, and both men settled into the bed together. On a whim, Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft, spooning him, and Mycroft relaxed against him. Greg kissed his neck very lightly and whispered, “Goodnight, Mycroft.”

“Goodnight, Gregory.”


End file.
